Leaving Limbo
by paperstorm
Summary: Tag for 'And Then There Were None', S6, ep16. This time Sam's the one in need of reassurance. Schmoopy, fluffy Wincest, but it's tame. There isn't even sex.


**I told three separate people I wasn't gonna write a tag for this one. Look how well that worked out! Seriously, scream at me for not working on Reset. Do it, I need it. **

**Title is loving ripped off from the song Come November by Thriving Ivory (because I am not creative enough to come up with titles on my own. *headdesk*)**

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"Sam. Would you shut that thing down and come to bed already? I'm exhausted."

Sam's been holed up at the table in the corner ever since they checked in, squinting into the humming, fluorescent screen of his laptop; jaw clenched and fingers typing furiously.

"So go to sleep," he says evenly, gaze not even flinching.

"I can't," Dean complains, throwing an arm over his eyes. "You're crazy tense over there. You're making the whole _room_ tense. My stupid brain won't let me ignore you."

"So – I don't know, do some shots or something," Sam all-but-snaps. "Excuse me for trying to find something on the crazy bitch that wants to kill us and eat babies. Don't really think this is something we should go into blind."

"Of course it's not, but c'mon, you know you're not gonna find anything!" Dean snaps back. "Dude, the last time she was here was, what, like ten thousand years ago? Pretty sure they didn't have the internet back then. It's not like she's gonna have a Facebook page."

"So I shouldn't even try?" Sam huffs a humorless laugh. "Just go to sleep already, you're distracting me."

Dean sighs exasperatedly and heaves himself up to a sitting position.

"Sam," he says quietly, waiting until Sam looks at him before continuing. "We both know what you're doing. You're avoiding me because you think I didn't mean what I said back at the graveyard. You think I just said it for Bobby and now that we're alone I'm gonna take it back and tell you I actually hate you for all the stuff you've done."

Sam's whole demeanor changes in half a second. His shoulders slump and his face kind of crumbles, eyebrows tilting up in the middle and eyes going wide and sad.

"You _should_ hate me," he mumbles woefully, not meeting Dean's gaze.

"I don't," Dean assures. "Never did. Now can you please come to bed?"

Sam exhales heavily though his nose, but nods reluctantly. He shuts his laptop without even bothering to close whatever pages he'd been on, then he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall to the floor. His hand stalls on the button of his jeans; hesitant for just a second and Dean really wishes he knew what _that_ was about, but he doesn't ask. He just watches as Sam unbuttons and steps out of his jeans. He looks over at Dean when he's down to just boxers and a t-shirt, and even though it's a look he sports almost every night, Dean's struck again at how young Sam looks when he's stripped of overshirts and baddass hunter body-language. Sam is downright terrifying when he needs to be – body perfectly sculpted into a completely lethal weapon that does _not_ need a gun or a knife to stop your heart. He uses every inch of his impressive height to his advantage, moving fluidly like his punches and dodges were choreographed. Dean loves seeing him in action, makes him insanely proud to know he's part of the reason Sam's such a good hunter. But underneath it all, underneath all the layers of muscle and pain and time-hardened grit, there's a part of Sam that's still just a little boy, desperate for his big brother's approval. It makes Dean's chest ache to know Sam thinks he deserves to be hated.

He holds his hand out and smiles a little. "C'mere."

Sam offers him a small, sad smile in return, and takes Dean's hand; lets Dean pull him forward up the bed until they're lying facing each other.

"I meant it," Dean says, smoothing Sam's hair back from his forehead and tucking it behind Sam's ear. "Everything's forgiven, okay? Fresh start."

"Doesn't work like that." Sam's voice sounds small and kinda miserable. "We can't just pretend all that stuff didn't happen."

"I'm not pretending anything. I'm just saying I forgive you, so we can move on. Move past it." Dean leaves his hand resting on Sam's jaw, slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth on Sam's cheek.

"Dean …" Sam's tone sounds like he's protesting, but clearly only halfheartedly because he doesn't say anything else, and he slides his big palm down Dean's ribcage and lets it settle, warm and heavy, on Dean's hip.

"Sam, what we do isn't easy. No one knows that more than me," Dean begins gently. "Sometimes being a hunter means having to choose between two bowls of shit, y'know? Sometimes both choices suck. And yeah, okay, maybe sometimes you've bet on the wrong bowl. So have I. But it's not like you can see the future, right?"

Sam throws him a look, and Dean catches himself on a quick laugh.

"Well, okay, you can't see the future _anymore_," he concedes. "Look, my point is, you made a choice. Sometimes it was the right one and sometimes it was the wrong one and it's all in the past now anyway, so it doesn't matter. I meant what I said. Life's too short. I don't wanna spend it being mad at you for a bunch of shit that wasn't really your fault. Okay?"

Sam nods a little, squeezing Dean's hip lightly with strong fingers. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." Dean moves forward and kisses Sam's lightly, but moves back when Sam doesn't respond.

"We lost too many people today," Sam says quietly. "I hate that."

"You're not upset that you shot Samuel, are you?" Dean asks warily. "Cause you had to, Sammy, he – "

"I know," Sam cuts in. "And no, I'm not. He was possessed, or infected or whatever. He was gonna kill me. I had to shoot him."

Dean nods and strokes Sam's hair again.

"But Rufus shouldn't have had to die," Sam continues sadly.

Dean leans his head forward enough to press a long kiss to Sam's forehead. When he pulls back, Sam's gaze is focused on a spot on Dean's forearm, and it takes Dean a minute to remember what he's looking at; the electrical burn. Sam moves his hand slowly away from Dean's hip and brushes the pad of his thumb gently over the blistering mark. Dean flinches just a little; Sam's touch is light but the wound is still fresh, and Sam pulls his hand back quickly and looks up at Dean with apologetic eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Dean shakes his head. "It's okay."

Sam reaches out to touch it again, which isn't exactly what Dean meant when he said it was okay, but this time his fingertip is so barely there that Dean doesn't even feel it.

"I'm glad it wasn't in you," Sam says softly. "I hate what we had to do to Bobby, but I couldn't have done it if it was you."

"Me neither," Dean agrees. "Shit, I could barely handle doing it to Bobby. Couldn't hurt you like that."

"Last time you got zapped I almost lost you," Sam whispers, inching in a little bit closer and tossing a leg over Dean's.

"Didn't. Not gettin' rid of me so easily," Dean promises. "Someone's gotta stick around to keep your gigantor ass on the straight and narrow, right?"

Sam smiles a little. "Yeah."

Dean smiles back, closing the remaining distance between them and pressing his lips into Sam's.

Kissing Sam is like a drug, always has been, and this time is no different, even though it's a little sleepy and there's no real heat behind it. Dean's lips slide easily against Sam's, soft and affectionate, and Sam's arm snakes around the small of Dean's back. Dean lets his tongue lick gently at Sam's lips for a moment before Sam opens up for him, pulling Dean's tongue in and massaging it with his own. The inside of Sam's mouth is warm and sweet and comforting, and Sam's tongue can do amazing things when the kiss is leading somewhere, but right now it's clearly not so he's just sort of sucking at Dean's lips, and that's pretty incredible too. Usually their time together like this takes place in stolen moments, in a dark corner of a bar or in a shitty motel room, and all too often it's about getting warmed up enough to get off so they can sleep. Dean can't even remember the last time they just made out like this, lazy and slow and content that this is the main event. They used to do this all the time when they were kids, when Sam wasn't ready for anything else (according to Dean, anyway, Sam might've had a different opinion on that) and Dean kind of forgot how much he likes it; just kissing and licking and Sam's arm snug around his waist. Sam's _big_ arm. It still strikes Dean as odd sometimes that he's the smaller one now. That even though it's carved into him so deep that he's never gonna stop protecting Sam, technically he doesn't _need_ to anymore. Not like when they were kids. Sam can take care of himself now, he can take care of both of them. Dean is safe when Sam's around. Even today, when they all still thought that asshole wormy thing was in Dean. Bobby, Rufus, Samuel, they all had their guns pointed at Dean – Sam's gun was pointed at them.

Sam sort of falls away from him after a few minutes, smiling drowsily. "Sorry," he slurs. "Too tired to kiss properly."

"No you're not," Dean murmurs, brushing Sam's nose with his own. "You're amazing."

"Well I did learn from the best."

Dean smiles. "Hell yeah you did."

Sam grins back and Dean gets a good grip on his arm and pulls the heavy body toward his, rolling onto his back as he goes so Sam ends up lying across Dean's chest with his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean's not sure how sleeping on a hard, boney shoulder can be comfortable, but Sam always says it is, and he snuggles in a little closer to nuzzle at Dean's neck. Dean wraps his arms around Sam's back and sighs happily. His lungs are a little constricted under over two hundred pounds of Sammy, but even so he'll sleep better this way. Always does.

"Night Sammy," he whispers.


End file.
